


At Your Door

by lawatsonholmes, Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:37:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawatsonholmes/pseuds/lawatsonholmes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is startled, angry, and more to find an auburn-haired "stranger" on the front steps outside the Baker Street flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Your Door

 

“Hello, John. May I come in?” 

“Sher-Sherlock. What the bloody hell?” 

"At least you still recognise me. I did wonder..” Sherlock smiled very slightly." 

John’s hand shook as he reached out to touch the apparition before him, because that’s what it had to be, a ghost, a figment of his imagination. Sherlock was dead, _dead_ , had been for three years, three horrible, agonizing, empty years. 

John sucked in a stuttered breath when his hand met flesh, warm and soft and alive beneath his fingers, the beat of Sherlock’s heart steady under John’s hand pressed against Sherlock’s chest. “You—you,” he choked out. He cleared his throat. “You fucking bastard.” 

Sherlock held the hand tightly over his heart. “John, I’m sorry. It was the only way to protect you. You and everyone else who mattered to me. If I could have done anything else… anything… believe me, John.” He reached out, hoping to touch John’s face, that face he’d seen in every moment of his exile, in every second of every dream the past three years.

John moved to lean into Sherlock’s touch before he caught himself and jerked away. “No, no. That’s not enough, Sherlock. You can’t just knock on the door after _three fucking years_  and say, ‘Sorry I made you believe I was dead, mate, but it was for your own good.’ You can’t.”

Sherlock started to speak, then closed his mouth again. He looked into John’s weary, frightened eyes. “No. No, you’re right. I should…,” Sherlock stopped to swallow hard, glancing down for a moment before continuing. “I should have anticipated your… feelings about this.” He squared his shoulders and blinked several times. “May I at least see the flat again? I won’t take much time, and then I promise to leave.” Sherlock’s jaw worked back and forth for a moment. “Please.” 

John’s hand on Sherlock’s chest tightened into a fist, clutched at the fabric of his jacket and smooth silk shirt. “Do you honestly think,” John said, voice low and rough and trembling, “that I’m going to let you leave me again?” 

Sherlock breathed in and out haltingly before reaching up and laying a hand alongside John’s face. This time, John didn’t pull away. Sherlock’s elegant thumb  traced the deepened lines around John’s eye, felt the teardrops that were already beginning to spill from the corners. He felt the stinging in his own eyes, and fought to hold it back for just a few more moments. “John, I’d like very much… I’m prepared, if you’ll let me… never to leave your side again, for the rest of our lives.” 

John pushed his cheek into Sherlock’s hand, savoring the gentle warmth of a touch he thought he would never feel, a touch he had missed even without having known it, and nodded. Then he pulled Sherlock closer, pressed their foreheads together, felt Sherlock’s hot breath ghost across his lips. “I swear, Sherlock, if you ever, _ever_  die on me again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

A tiny laugh escaped Sherlock’s mouth. “Yes, John. I understand perfectly.”  He angled his head just a bit, putting their faces almost imperceptibly closer. “John,” he breathed, “would you be embarrassed if I kissed you in a public place?”

John flicked his tongue out lightly, grazing Sherlock’s lower lip. It sent a jolt of electricity through both of them.  John replied with a trembling chuckle, “I’d be embarrassed if you kissed me in a private place, out here with all these people about.”

He felt Sherlock smile against his lips, and he grinned, too. Then he did what he had wanted to do since first opening the door, first seeing that wonderfully familiar face. He captured Sherlock’s mouth, gently at first, just brushing their lips together, breath swirling between them, before he nipped Sherlock’s plush lower lip. He loosened his grip on Sherlock’s jacket and flattened his hand, spread his fingers wide to touch as much of Sherlock as he could, and slid his other hand into Sherlock’s hair. He used his grip to tilt Sherlock’s head, and finally, finally, after _solongtoolongmuchtoolong,_ kissed Sherlock. 

For a few seconds after John broke the kiss, Sherlock remained motionless, feeling he might sway forward or back if he allowed himself to move at all.  He looked at John again, not just observing this time, but drinking him in. John. John Hamish Watson.  _His_  John. Sherlock wanted to tell him so much, right now. Right here at the door where they shook hands for the first time. But when he finally felt able to speak, he stammered out something completely mundane.  ”You’ve gone more grey. I see it at your temples.” 

“You should bloody well talk,” John laughed. “I never imagined you as a ginger before now. But somehow….,” he licked his lips again, “I think it suits you, actually.”

“I intend to dye it back tomorrow. I only wanted to wait until I was sure you could let me back in.  To our flat. To your life,” he took a deep breath, “to your heart.” 

John pulled him close again and held his face tightly. “You left our flat. You left my life, Sherlock;” he closed his eyes and kissed him softly once more. “But you could never leave my heart.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the John-centered peragraphs and lines were written by lawatsonholmes. She and I "liveblogged" this on tumblr one evening.


End file.
